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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#12421voted by our readers
By Anonymous
My father’s hands are rough and worn. Not at all like my mother’s. They are strong, from years of baling hay. They are calloused, from each new project. They are sure, from...
My father’s hands are rough and worn. Not at all like my mother’s. They are strong, from years of baling hay. They are calloused, from each new project. They are sure, from...